Psychology
by kellythefangirl
Summary: Young Sherlock Holmes and John Watson begin to solve mysteries while they go to school at Eton- but the biggest mystery may be what fellow student Jim Moriarty is hiding. Kidlock/Teenlock. Sequel to Somewhat Different. Rated T for stuff later.
1. Prologue

**Hey guys! So this is the sequel to Somewhat Different, if you haven't read it it'll be on my account, but you don't really need to read it to understand this, though it'd probably help. Okay, so this is the prologue and I hope you guys like it! -Kelly**

Prologue: A Falling Out

Mycroft was worried about his brother.

For most of the summer, he stayed in his room, probably reading or God knows what else, and all he could hear was worrying thuds or even more worrying silence. If he wasn't in his room, he was at John's house, though those visits to his only friend were few and far between. Sherlock was forced by their mother to come downstairs and have supper with them 'like a regular family', and when he was forced, he claimed he had been working on experiments. But Mycroft knew the real reason behind the prolonged absences: the boy did not want to speak to his parents.

The last night of the summer the elder Holmes brother knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door and was met with the same response he was every day at this time: "I'll be down for supper in a minute, Mycroft."

"No, Mum's still making it." That made the boy open his door and poke his head out with a confused expression.

"What's wrong? Supper is always ready at 5:45. It's 5:45."

"We're eating at 6:30 tonight, she's making something special," Mycroft said.

"Why?"

"Because you're leaving tomorrow."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh, they've noticed?"

"Yes," Mycroft said patiently.

"Well, then," Sherlock said, "I'll see you at 6:30." He tried to close the door but his older brother stopped it with his foot.

"No, that's not what I came to tell you," Mycroft said. Sherlock looked at him carefully then opened his door wider, gesturing for him to enter.

Mycroft looked around the room and saw many newspaper clippings taped to the walls; most of them seemed to be from four months ago, about the poor Powers boy who drowned at the regional swimming finals. Test tubes and containers of chemicals, as well as balances and a book called Common Poisons, covered his desk. "So this is what you've been doing? Solving murders in your bedroom?"

"Mainly just the one," Sherlock said, hopping onto the one spot of his bed that wasn't covered in clothing and books to be packed later that night. "What did you need?"

"Just... that I'll be driving you tomorrow." Sherlock looked up.

"Thank you."

"Why thank you?" Mycroft asked. "I thought actually that you'd be... upset."

"Why would I be upset?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely confused. "No, I'm thanking you for getting me out of the horribly awkward silence that would occur if Mum or Dad drove me."

"There might not have been a three-month-long awkward silence if you hadn't shut everyone out this summer, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, and Sherlock laughed.

"That isn't my fault! Mum and Dad were the ones who just made a random decision about a big part of my life without even _consulting_ me!"

"They don't have to, for the last time, you are a _child_, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed.

"And you've defended them the entire time, see? You're doing it now!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Oh, well, please, do tell me what John did to you," Mycroft replied scathingly, and Sherlock glared at him, finally starting to realize that his brother was right—one of the things he absolutely couldn't stand, to be wrong... "And Molly Hooper! Poor little Molly, came to the door last week to try and give you a going away present and you slammed the door in her face!"

"She's annoying!" Sherlock said defensively.

"Yes, because that's a criminal offense! Sherlock," Mycroft said, lowering his voice and trying for a new approach, "if you keep shutting the world out there won't be anyone left that cares about you."

"I thought that was already the case," the boy muttered and Mycroft grimaced.

"I care," he said tentatively, and Sherlock snorted in disbelief. "It's true, I do. I don't want you to leave, honestly, I don't. I don't think you have the right personality for abrupt and complete change and discipline."

"Oh, got that, did you?"

"Sherlock! I'm trying to help you," Mycroft said. "I would suggest that you actually _talk_ to John."

"I do talk to him."

"About once every three weeks. That's not enough," Mycroft said.

"Okay," Sherlock conceded in a small voice. "I'll talk to him."

"And maybe you could—"

"I am _not _apologizing to Mother."

"Right," Mycroft said. Silence.

"I'll see you at 6:30." It was obviously a dismissal.

"Okay," the older brother agreed. As he walked out, he turned around. "Sherlock... I'm sorry. About all this."

The boy grimaced. "I'm sure you are." And that was all. The car ride in the morning was silent, the awkward silence Sherlock had been hoping to avoid painfully evident. Neither of them said a word until they pulled into the driveway of Sherlock's house at Eton. Mycroft helped him get his suitcase out, held the door open for him. Sherlock said 'thank you' at all the right moments, but it was all just polite. Mycroft used to be an ally against their parents, who honestly never really did understand their brilliant younger son. Now he could see he'd become one of the enemies in the boy's eyes. Polite was all they'd ever be from that moment on, and maybe not even that. The smiley, strange little boy who was excited by pirates and chemical compounds was replaced with a calculating one who would barely speak to him, and for the first time Mycroft found himself glad he was going away for school,he didn't know if he could bear to see this new brother quietly hating him for being, in Sherlock's eyes, just as bad as the rest of the world was to him. And when he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw him walk over to John in the foyer and out of his life, he knew that Sherlock was right.

But then, who could really understand Sherlock Holmes?


	2. 1: The House

**Hey guys! So this is the real first chapter... obviously, I don't own it, blah blah blah... a quick warning: I am American and currently have a tab open on the Eton website as my reference point, but that's all I know about the school, so I'm trying but if I get something wrong I'm sorry, and if you want to review and correct me that'd be great. So thanks for reading and enjoy! -Kelly**

Chapter 1: The House

Sherlock could tell this would be interesting from the moment he walked in the door. To be fair, he was looking for a distraction to his fight with Mycroft, but he knew the difference between wishful thinking and a real problem to solve. The older boys—the ones who had been in the same house the previous year—they all had their own problems and backgrounds, but they had one thing in common—they were worrying about something, something they had almost forgotten about all summer and were just reminded of.

Sherlock then saw John, who was already talking about football or something with some other new boys. Sherlock tapped him on the shoulder and John immediately grinned and turned around. "Sherlock, hi!" he said excitedly. "This is Scott and Michael, they like Manchester too!"

"Pleasure," Sherlock said, ignoring Michael's outstretched hand. "I'm looking for a boy in the year above us, have you seen him, his name's—"

"Truman's coming!" an older boy called from the top of the staircase and every boy in the foyer fell silent, including the new boys.

"Who's Truman?" Sherlock whispered to John.

"You didn't read the letters they sent you?" John asked.

"What letters?"

John sighed. "He's the house master."

"The what?"

"Welcome to Eton," Truman said from the top of the staircase, the older boy who had warned them scurrying down the stairs. "This is Walpole House, so if you belong somewhere else, leave now and find the correct building." There was a small boy who swore under his breath and ran out the door. "Now, then. I am Dr. Truman, you will call me 'sir', and you will listen to me or you will be punished. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," all the boys mumbled, and Sherlock muttered, "Not bloody likely." John elbowed him.

"Good. Go unpack and report for supper in the dining hall in half an hour. That is all."

The boys didn't begin to talk until Dr. Truman had gone back into his office, and when they did they were much quieter. "So you're saying I have to take orders from that guy?" Sherlock asked in disgust.

"Well, you'd better," one of two older boys walking towards them said. He already had his uniform on and held out his hand. "Zachary Morris, house captain. This is Theo Lewis, captain of games."

John shook Zachary's hand. "John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock muttered, not shaking his hand. He did a quick assessment: Zachary was smart but a bit arrogant about it-no, a lot arrogant about it. He was 17 and in the oldest year at the school. Theo was athletic but not incredibly bright-average definitely. 17 and oldest year as well. They both lived in the country outside school, not near London either. They had known each other for about eight years, so before Eton, meaning probably living in the same area. Their accents said Cumbrian to him. He wasn't entirely sure, though.

"Anyway, Truman's in charge, you'd best get used to it. And I've got a bit of authority, too, just to warn you," Zachary said. "The deputy master's Brunner, he's all right. The dame's Mary Adler, and she's like a mum, don't worry about her."

"What's captain of games?" Michael asked Theo.

"I'm supposed to motivate you—and force you, if necessary—to take part in teams and games," Theo said. "Though, I don't think I'll have trouble with you three—Manchester," he explained, when Michael, John, and Scott looked confused, gesturing to the shirts all three of them were wearing. "Might be dangerous to wear that, we've got boys from all over here," Theo added. "What about you, Sherlock?"

"Not really my thing," he said, annoyed now.

"Yeah, well, too bad," Theo said, and walked over to the next group of boys, wearing Tottenham shirts.

"Anyway, do what Truman and Brunner say and you'll be fine," Zachary said. "Well, I've got to go, it was nice meeting you." He turned to leave and Sherlock hesitated. He really wanted to minimize his interaction with Zachary, but he might be the only one who knows...

"Zachary. Wait," Sherlock called after him, and ran to catch up.

Zachary looked annoyed. "I've got things to do-"

"Is there a student here named Jim Moriarty? He'd be in his second year..." Zachary's face changed instantly and he grabbed Sherlock roughly by the shoulder, dragging him into the corner.

"What do you know about him?" he demanded. Sherlock tried to get away but Zachary held firm. "What do you know?"

"Nothing, I met him once, he... well, he wanted to know more about me. Kind of makes me interested, sorry."

"Stay away from him."

"Why?"

"Just..." Zachary looked around, then lowered his voice and said, "stay away from him. If you keep your head down, he might not notice you."

"Oh, I doubt that, who _wouldn't_ notice Sherlock here?" Zachary's eyes widened and Sherlock turned around to see Jim Moriarty, already in full uniform, smirking at them. "Hello again, Sherlock Holmes. Why don't we catch up?"

* * *

**Reviews are great. Thanks!**


	3. 2: Don't Count Me Out

**Hey guys! Chapter 2! I don't own, if I did, we'd have Season 3 by now...**

Chapter 2: Don't Count Me Out

Sherlock wasn't sure what had just happened right in front of him—somewhat of a first. Jim had simply looked at Zachary and he left, quite quickly actually, almost like he was running. Then Moriarty had said, "Let's go somewhere a bit more private," before walking down the hallway. Sherlock hesitated but went with him, stopping when Jim stopped and held open a door that only had '103' printed on it. "Well? After you," he said, gesturing inside. Sherlock entered to find a simple dorm room that had been cleaned thoroughly and nicely decorated, with a dark wooden bookshelf, desk, and bed each on their own wall. A small closet was on the other side. No suitcase was present, but Sherlock knew this was Jim's room.

"Yours?" he asked.

"Like you didn't know that," Jim said, kicking off his shoes and laying comfortably on the bed.

"Well, there's no suitcase, and the bed's made. So..."

"I've been here for a while. Actually, I never went home."

"I thought you had to."

Jim smiled. "Not if you know the right people...or the right price. And my dad sort of does."

"What did you want to tell me?" Sherlock asked.

"Wow, you're really uptight, aren't you?"

"I've got other engagements, and now that I think about it, they might be a bit more important than talking to you," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

Jim pouted. "I'm hurt. I only wanted to say hello."

"Hello," Sherlock said, then turned to leave. He made it to the door before Jim spoke again.

"And to ask you what side you'll be joining."

Sherlock turned around, raising an eyebrow. "Side?"

"The important people and the people that are convenient for carrying laundry."

"What?"

"Oh, Sherlock, you really are innocent, aren't you?" Jim asked, smirking.

"No, I'm not! I spent my summer investigating a murder!" he protested.

"But you're still counting yourself as one of them?" Jim asked. He sighed and stood back up, walking over to Sherlock. "Let me explain something. There's smart people, like you and I, and there's normal people. That's the rest of the students at this dreadful place. Right now you're on track to associate with those people for the rest your life, until you waste away with your ordinary people that you hold so dear for reasons unimaginable. But I could save you from that. Think about it, that's all I'm saying."

Sherlock snorted. "I'll pass, thanks. You've got quite an ego."

"And you haven't?" Jim laughed. "Look, I'll admit, some are useful. Seb's got good aim, and... I'm sure John is good for something other than holding test tubes. Actually, when you find out, could you let me know? I've always wondered why you like him so much. Anyway, Sherlock, don't count me out just yet. I could help you."

"I don't need your help. I'm going now," Sherlock said shakily, before leaving rather quickly and running back to John and the boys with Manchester shirts.

"Who was that, Sherlock?" John asked. "The boy you went down there with."

"Um, no one. His name's Jim Moriarty. I guess he's just a bully, stay away from him." Sherlock said. But he couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said. Were there really classes of people? And if there were, where did he really fit in?

**Reviews make me happy. -Kelly :)**


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